Saturday, August 6, 2011

The House that Built Me: Yellow Bedroom

The yellow bedroom. Gram always called it the west bedroom. At one time, it had been my aunt's childhood bedroom, but I always knew it as my own, and I inhabited it so often, it might as well have been.

The two windows overlooked the backyard. If you looked between the tree branches, you could see the orchard beyond. On sultry Summer nights, I would lie in the twin bed, listening to crickets chirping. There wasn't any air-conditioning, but with the windows opened wide, the occasional breeze would cool the room for sleeping, the gauzy pale blue and yellow curtains fluttering ever so gently.

I would fall asleep to the deep darkness you only find in the country, the serenade of the night sounds forming a lullaby. And in the morning, I would awaken to the muted morning light. I firmly believe this is why I still sleep with the blinds cracked. My internal rhythm responds perfectly, waking with the growing natural light.

The bed had the comfort of a familiar space. I knew exactly where the comfy spots were. The feather pillows were soft & somehow always cool. The sheets were worn with age, but not worn out, just that weathered softness of many washings, and they smelled of sunshine & fresh air. There was always a bedspread, though they would swap in & out with Gram's mood--sometimes white, other times yellow or pale green--and in the Winter, there was the softest lavender blanket. I remember, as a small girl, seeking out its edge to rub between my fingers while I grew drowsy.

Like my bedroom at home, it was yellow. I was never a fan of my yellow bedroom walls at home, but here, it was cozy & cheerful. The furniture was a warm brown, and laid out on top of the dresser, on an old mirrored tray, were all Gram's lipsticks, her "rouge" and her compact of pressed powder and her blue eye shadow. I would open & close them, listening to that satisfying snap, occasionally testing it out just a bit. Gram didn't use makeup everyday. It was for special occasions, trips to the mall, holidays and going to church. Gram was always beautiful to me, but she seemed even more lovely when she would change from her typical work clothes, accessorizing with her beads & her clip-on earrings, and then standing at that dresser, "putting on her face" from all those little containers in front of the mirror on the wall, as I watched her, perched on the edge of the bed.

On the wall, over the headboard of the bed, was a print of a little girl picking wildflowers in a meadow. As Gram would buzz in & out of the room, stepping over my paper dolls or my Cabbage Patch Kids, she would so often look at that framed print & recite to me: "There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. And when she was good, she was very very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid." I spent so much time in this room. Playing imaginary games, reading on the bed, recovering from various maladies--both physical & emotional.

The yellow bedroom was a cocoon, an oasis of sorts, from the trials & traumas of growing up. I played there and sulked there. I cried there and dreamed there and felt safe there. I dressed for school, took refuge there, spent precious hours there. That yellow bedroom remains one of the most peaceful places I have ever known.

1 with their own thoughts:

Unknown Saturday, August 06, 2011 6:01:00 PM  

As usual, your thoughts make me remember and cry.

katie

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